Games
by Pathetic Fallacy
Summary: Oh, don't make me write a summary. HouseWilson slash. Oneshot as well.


_Set while Wilson was sleeping on House's sofa. Because that was cool. It has swearing in, and sexual references of course. And I don't own House. Anything else that's going to make people sue me if I don't mention it? Goood. Also, the line break hereafter might be messed up._

House's minions wondered why their overlord was so disinterested in cases these days. All kinds of theories had been put forth, most verging on the ridiculous, but none of them came anywhere close to the truth. House was being downright lethargic about medicine because he had a new game. A better game. A _brilliant _game.

A game involving Wilson. Well, Wilson _was _the game, really.

He could hardly remember how it had started. A loopy idea at three in the morning, probably, that had refused to go away when it got to a saner time. Or he'd acted on it at three in the morning. At any rate, there had been a kiss, and Wilson had fled in what House like to think of as abject terror. The next day, however, which House had been looking forward to immensely – Wilson was going to be so _awkward _– Wilson had thoroughly let him down by acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

This had intrigued House, and he had poked around Wilson's belongings, looking for any signs of intermittent amnesia (you never knew.) Any sly joke he made on the subject was met with blank perplexity, and House quickly came to realize that the only way to find out whether Wilson had even _noticed _that his best friend had snogged him one was to do it again.

They had been standing on the balcony, discussing a case, and House had seized Wilson's head and kissed him thoroughly. The oncologist had returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but after a brief moment, he'd pulled away, straightened his tie and gone inside without another word. More not-actually-amnesia followed.

And then it was a game. Wilson was fun to push. And House enjoyed finding new places to corner him. Because one of the unspoken rules about the game was that they both pretended absolutely nothing was going on while they weren't actually kissing each other, and House was careful to corner Wilson only in at least temporarily deserted places, no-one had any idea of what was going on except House and Wilson.

As the game went on, what House thought of as Wilson's tolerance levels increased – he'd allow his shirt buttons to be played with, and House could kiss him as hard as he wanted to. But there was always a point at which the oncologist would step neatly back, straighten whatever needed to be straightened (usually his hair – House had a particular fondness for destroying his carefully combed hair) and walk away. When he did leave, House always had to fight the impulse to drag him back. He'd be thoroughly annoyed if this wasn't _his _game.

Another thing that was annoying was that Wilson never started it. That was part of the game, House supposed, but it was certainly something he'd make snarky comments about if he was allowed to.

The game continued. House began to run out of new and interesting places to corner Wilson, and had to be satisfied with old and still interesting places (because the location didn't really matter when it got right down to it.) The minions rallied themselves and managed a tentative query as to why House wasn't paying much attention to their cases. Cuddy herself dropped by to congratulate him on going two months without getting a law suit from a clinic patient.

Then Wilson broke the rules.

At half past two on a rainy Thursday, House was slouched on the couch in his office watching raindrops and waiting for it to be quarter to three so he could justify not doing any work. He glanced up as the door swung open, admitting a slightly harassed looking Wilson, who flopped on the other half of the sofa.

"Cancer still stressful?" House asked, lobbing his ball at the wall and catching it neatly on the rebound.

"I see you're really snowed under," Wilson observed darkly.

"Absolutely. I'm run off my feet watching the minions work."

The oncologist managed a tired sort of chuckle, and silence fell, broken only by the repetitive drumming of the rain against the window. House considered the idea of trapping him on the sofa and seeing what he'd do if escaping wasn't an option, and had lazily decided against it when he felt Wilson's lips against his ear and Wilson's hand raking down his front all the way. A choked sort of gasp forced its way out of his lungs, and he whirled about (well, as much as a person can 'whirl' while slouching on a sofa) to check it really was Wilson on the sofa, and not, say, Cameron, who could have snuck in while he was staring at the wall and could quite possibly be molesting him _right this minute._

It was Wilson. House would have been almost disappointed if ninety-eight percent of his brain hadn't been focused on more pressing matters, like kissing Wilson with fierce intensity. And just as he felt like his brain had shorted itself out entirely, just as he'd decided that they'd need the best surgical team in America to dislodge him from Wilson, just as he'd almost managed to free Wilson's tie from his neck as a souvenir, the oncologist very neatly disengaged himself and –

- ohfuckyou'rejokingmeno_way_no_way_ –

- _walked away._

House stared with mournful confusion at the slightly awkward figure of his best friend as it crossed the floor of his office and disappeared into the crowd outside, a blank uncomprehension suffusing his suddenly deprived mind.

Slowly, the abject confusion began to yield to a wildly burning rage that slid warmly into every inch of his body, replacing the (somewhat more pleasant) glow Wilson had left there. Oh, there would be revenge. He would have _vengeance. _Wilson had broken _all the rules of the game. _

Well, House wasn't playing any more. So _there. _

And if the ducklings were somewhat confused by the uncharacteristic (even for House) vindictiveness with which he carried out the rest of the week, they certainly didn't say so.


End file.
